by Tamara Leigh
“I am no maid.”
Thinking she jested, El nearly smiled. But Lady Maeve had no lightness about her, she who had been exalted as a Foucault when the Boursiers, De Arells, and Verduns were mere vassals to her father.
El lowered the gown. “Forgive me. I misunderstood.”
Lady Maeve turned away. “I shall rouse my maid and have her assist you.”
She is tolerating me, El reminded herself, the better to accept the snub, and lowered herself to the chest to await the lady’s maid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
An hour later, El had been put to order as much as was possible. Hulda, who appeared to be of an age near that of her mistress—and had likely served her since Castle Adderstone was the Foucault residence—was gentle and courteous. However, upon her lady’s return to the solar, the maid went silent as if for fear of appearing disloyal.
“Presentable,” Lady Maeve said, circling as Hulda knotted the sling supporting El’s left arm. “You were even able to do something with her hair.”
El fingered the thick braid that had been pinned around her head. Though Hulda had cleaned away the dried blood, her hair was in need of a wash. Not for the first time, she wished she had rallied her courage when she had been given the opportunity to bathe at Castle Mathe. Never had she gone so long without immersing herself in a tub and soaking and scrubbing until the water lost its heat. Still, she was passably clean, Hulda having stripped and sponged her with perfumed water.
Though the damaged chemise beneath the cotehardie into which El had been carefully buttoned was also in need of washing, it would have to wait.
“My husband expects me, Lady Maeve?” El asked.
“I have not been belowstairs to inform him you have awakened,” she said.
El frowned. When Hulda had come alone to the solar with a tray of food and drink, El had assumed Lady Maeve had gone to the hall. She must have withdrawn to her own chamber, finding the prospect of watching her maid attend to El’s ablutions as unsavory as attending to them herself.
“But as told by the din in the inner bailey,” the lady continued, “methinks Bayard has moved himself and his men out of doors.”
El had heard voices and the push and scrape of shovels from beyond the shuttered windows, but had assumed they were of servants set the task of clearing paths through the snow. “For what did my husband take his men outside?”
“The more able-bodied there are to clear the snow, the sooner ’tis done. And as Bayard’s men failed him in allowing my daughter to be taken by De Arell, they are not exempt. Not that they often are, but certainly not this day. And providing the sky does not loose more of its misery upon us, Godsmere’s garrison will soon enough find themselves practicing at arms.” Her mouth curved toward a smile. “I believe you will find you have wed the worthiest of those whom King Edward has commanded to take a wife. Such a pity you do not deserve him.”
The words were unkind, shaking their pact, but El knew the woman had cause to believe she was undeserving of the one she had raised as her own son.
“If my husband and his men have left the hall,” El said, “I shall also require a mantle.”
The lady gave a short laugh. “Bayard will not like that you are out of bed, but he will like it even less if you expose yourself to the cold.”
“Hence, I shall don a mantle.”
Ignoring the annoyance that rose on Lady Maeve’s face, El looked to the maid who had stepped alongside her mistress. “I thank you for your aid, Hulda.”
“You are welcome, milady.”
El returned to the wooden chest and reached for the fur-lined mantle of finest wool that Bayard had sent his squire to fetch her when she had spoken vows with him as Thomasin de Arell. She paused, savored the warmth that swept her as she recalled that act of kindness. And it was only the first of many he had shown her.
Behind, Lady Maeve sighed. “Fetch my mantle, Hulda.”
Keeping her smile to herself, El drew out her husband’s mantle. Unfortunately, as heavy and voluminous as it was, it was no easy thing to don with the use of only one arm, and twice she dropped it to the rushes.
Bayard’s stepmother made an impatient sound, crossed the chamber, and took the mantle from her. With jerks and tugs, she fit it to El’s shoulders, then frowned over the simple brooch. “Not this one,” she said and stepped to the chest. When she returned, she fastened the mantle with a gold, beautifully worked brooch. “There. Though the mantle is too large for you, you look more a baron’s wife.”
El felt a rush of gratitude that was all the greater since the woman had earlier refused her assistance, but before she could voice it, Lady Maeve added, “Now let us see if you can behave better than your aunt did.”
The hated Constance.
Tolerance, El told herself, then asked, “Where is she?”
“She remains abovestairs, and I think that is wise. Do you not?”
Under the circumstances. “I would like to see her.”
“Now is not the time. Hulda tells me she is in the chapel at prayer.”
“You keep watch over her?” El asked sharply.
Gaze unwavering, Lady Maeve said, “Suffer offense if you must, but this is my home, and I will not allow your aunt to move it to madness as she and that foul woman did years ago.”
“You think ’twas she who released Agatha from the underground?”
The lady’s mouth tightened. “It matters not what is thought but what was done. For all the days the witch was imprisoned here, she found her release only when Constance Verdun once more entered these walls. It more than gives one pause.”
El wished she could argue that it had not been Constance, but her words and beliefs would carry no weight. So who had been with Agatha in the inner walls? Who had not cried out when El was knocked down the steps? Who had remained silent when Agatha noted a broken neck was a good end to one who had been her mistress?
Head beginning to ache anew, El pushed the pondering aside, stepped past Lady Maeve, and crossed the chamber. In the corridor, she found an armed man on either side of the door and Hulda hastening forward.
Once Lady Maeve was arrayed in her own fur-lined mantle, she ordered one of the men-at-arms to hold watch over the solar and the other to accompany them belowstairs.
However the first one, a larger man girded with sword and four daggers, thrust a hand to the chest of the other man-at-arms and stepped forward.
Lady Maeve glowered, but grumbled, “Oh, very well.”
Curious, El considered the big man-at-arms who eyed her out of a square face, then he grunted and led the way down the corridor.
The descent of the steps was more difficult than expected, and El had to pause once to steady herself and assure Lady Maeve she did not need to return to bed.
The great hall was empty except for servants, as was the inner bailey when they ventured outside onto the landing.
It was cold, though not breathtakingly so. The overcast skies that had emptied a foot of white now brooded, taunting the frail beings below with the possibility of more snow that would return the recently cut path to its former state.
“And so to arms,” Lady Maeve said of the clanging metal and crack of wood that rose above the inner walls.
El pitied those who had not been allowed to first warm themselves before the blazing fire in the great hall. “It seems heartless. Surely Bayard’s men are chilled through.”
With a snort that was becoming as familiar as her disdain, Lady Maeve said, “Be assured, Bayard is among them. As for the chill, if his men are exerting the effort expected of them, they welcome the cold.”
El had not considered that, and it was hard to do so with her nose, cheeks, and ears beginning to sting.
Lady Maeve started to turn away. “Let us await them in the hall.”
“I would like to go to the outer bailey.”
“For what?”
“Methinks I would benefit from the fresh air.”
“You will break your nec
k is what you will do. Now come inside.”
She might have been convinced to do so, and the prospect of sitting before the hearth held appeal, but the sooner she asserted herself, the easier for all to accept her as the new lady of Castle Adderstone.
El slid her right arm from beneath the mantle and extended it toward the man-at-arms. “I shall require your assistance in descending the steps.”
He reached to her, paused, and frowned at Lady Maeve.
“With all respect to my…mother-in-law,” El said, supposing that was the proper title, “I am Baron Boursier’s wife. Thus, you require no one’s permission to do my bidding.”
Lady Maeve’s resentment stirred the air. “In that you are right, Lady Elianor—with one exception.” She returned her regard to the man-at-arms. “Baron Boursier.” Then she pivoted toward the doors and the warmth of the hall.
The man-at-arms stared after her, and when she was gone, muttered, “Baron Boursier first. Ever first.” He nodded, and as El pondered his behavior, took hold of her arm. Deftly, he supported her down the steps and over the white, dirt-strewn path.
“By what name are you called?” El asked as they neared the inner portcullis.
He looked down at her, his face so still and emotionless that she startled when a grin slashed open his mouth to reveal missing incisors amid great, yellowed teeth.
“Why, I be Rollo, milady. I do thank ye for askin’.” His was a coarse, thick voice, as if spoken over a mouthful of food, but it was friendly.
And El liked friendly, something she had not known as Murdoch Farrow’s wife. Still, there was something more to the man. Or was something missing—the same as his teeth? If he was on the simple-minded side as his manner suggested, surely he would not be trusted with weapons. Too, that other man-at-arms had readily acquiesced when Rollo had insisted on accompanying the ladies belowstairs—
Rollo. El knew the name. When Bayard had dragged her into the hall on the eve he had freed himself from the underground, he had been angered to learn his sister had gone in search of him without the aid of one named Rollo. Could this be the same?
“I may call ye Lady El…” His grin lowered. “Eli…?”
“Lady Elianor.”
“El…ianor.” He jerked his head as if shaking off a fly. “That be a long name.”
True, and she had made it longer by pronouncing it with four notes the same as Bayard did.
The man shrugged. “I shall learn it.”
“I am pleased to be your lady, Rollo.”
He gave a curt nod. “I hope ye be a God ‘un.”
First, she faltered over his reference to God, wondering if he but pronounced good in a strange way or if he truly meant God. Next, she faltered over his boldness. Was her aunt behind it? Had he served in Bayard’s household when Constance was its lady?
Telling herself it did not matter, El said, “I shall endeavor to be. May I ask something, Rollo?”
“Aye, milady.”
“Have you also served as Lady Quintin’s guard?”
His brow bunched. “For years and years, but she did go to Castle Mathe without me, and now she be stuck there.”
“I am sure she thought it more important that you attend to your mother. She is doing better?”
He nodded and said no more as they entered the outer bailey through which paths had also been cut, leaving the snow banked against the walls of the buildings. Buildings that were silent amid the din of men practicing arms. Doubtless, if not for the snow, they would be peopled by those who supplied the castle with all manner of needs, including ironware for their lord and his garrison, candles, dyed cloth, and ale. Instead, the castle folk were likely enjoying their role as spectators, happily gathered around those who fought mock battles in preparation for mortal ones.
Rollo guided El around the stables, and the training field came into view. It was thronged by castle folk interspersed with knights and men-at-arms. Indeed, it was so well attended that the many whose swords sent up a song of steel on steel, and quarterstaffs a beat of wood on wood, could only be glimpsed.
But the glimpses El was afforded of a large figure with auburn hair revealed Bayard was among those at practice. As she and her escort neared, they remained unnoticed by the others who seemed not to feel the cold though they exerted no effort to warm themselves.
When a shout of “Godsmere!” went up, strengthened by the voices of the garrison upon the walls overlooking the outer bailey, Rollo said with pride, “It be Baron Boursier who drew blood.”
El knew the way of things, that even at practice, soldiers were not averse to bloodletting. Still, it disturbed her, and for that she mostly stayed away from the training field.
To her surprise, the big man moved his right hand from his sword hilt and patted her arm that he held to. “Worry not, milady. Yer husband will put down that other ‘un.”
He was so certain that she pitied whoever that other one was. Absently noting that the sound of steel and wood had ceased, she said, “I thank you, Rollo.”
She had not believed he could show more teeth, but he did—rather, their absence farther back in his mouth.
Once more, steel sounded, but this time it seemed of two swords only. They were quick, successive strokes as of two fighting in close proximity, followed by a moment of silence, a collective gasp, and a far less represented shout of “Emberly!”
As El tried to make sense of it, Rollo returned his hand to his hilt and pushed a path for them to the front of those who had gathered before the entrance to the training field.
A score of knights and men-at-arms stood upon the field they had muddied so thoroughly that few patches of snow remained. The reason they had lowered their own weapons immediately apparent, El’s breath stopped.
Bayard stood in profile twenty feet distant. Hair darkened by perspiration, teeth bared, gaze hard upon his prey, he was a terrible sight. And more terrible was the way his great body moved quickly and fluidly—against her uncle.
Magnus was also transformed, though he looked less of a beast than Bayard. And more bloodied.
Bayard swung his sword down. Though El’s uncle deflected the blow, the tip of his opponent’s sword scored his lower jaw.
“Godsmere!” the bulk of spectators roared.
Finally, El found her breath. “Halt!” she cried and wrenched free of Rollo.
Twice more she called out as she ran forward, but she went unheard, for Magnus did not falter in countering with a slash that came close to adding the blood of her husband’s left arm to the dirty snow at his feet.
Bayard recovered from the side lunge that had spared his flesh, bellowed, and charged his opponent.
“Bayard!” El shrieked. “Do not!”
This time he heard her, snapping his head around to bring her within sight of his singular gaze.
Magnus also wrenched free of the bloodlust that had made him deaf to her beseeching and blind to her approach, but though his gaze fell upon her, the sword he wielded did not yield its momentum, catching Bayard high in the chest and carrying its point toward El.
Just as she registered that she, too, would bleed upon this field, an arm slammed around her waist and swept her to the side.
Barely hearing Rollo’s thick-tongued voice above Bayard’s roar, she stared at the sight of her warrior husband that turned more terrible as his blade deflected Magnus’s.
Her uncle fell back a step and fended off the next assault.
El’s struggle against the one holding her back jostled her splinted arm, but she ignored the pain and cried amidst the spectators’ din, “Pray, cease!”
Grunting and shouting, Bayard drove Magnus toward the side fence, causing those who stood upon its rungs to scatter. Then her uncle was against it, fending off the next blow, crossing and locking swords with his opponent above their heads.
Now it was a contest to see which man could first bring to hand the dagger upon his belt—a contest won by the one whose greater bulk should have slowed him.
Chests heaving, the opponents stared at each other, both surely aware that a sweep of the hand would be the end of Magnus. However, the slightest of nods—a grudging acknowledgment of defeat—ended the match.
Bayard pushed off his opponent. As the cry of “Godsmere!” sounded again, he thrust his sword and dagger into their scabbards and pivoted. The gaze he landed on El was so fiery it might have been colored red rather than blue.
“Never!” he thundered as he strode to where Rollo held her. “Never place yourself between men who are as dogs at each other’s throats! Do you understand?”
Not in all the days since she had become his captive had he so closely resembled the man who had first laid hands on her in the underground cell. But though fear ran through her, she exclaimed, “You were trying to kill each other!”
“Kill!” He halted so near that the scent of his labor wafted heavily between them. “We are at practice, Elianor!”
She glanced at the bloodied material near his collarbone for which Magnus was responsible. “’Tis more than that. It looked as if—”
“You feared I would slay your beloved uncle? Nay, despite the temptation, never did I forget he is your kin. Just as, methinks, he shall never forget I am your husband now.”
Those vicious, blood-seeking swings and thrusts were practice? El leaned to the side and looked to Magnus.
He watched them, as did the castle folk who eyed their lord and lady whilst chattering amongst themselves.
“Elianor!” Bayard barked.
She straightened. Without regard for their audience, his thunderous expression remained fixed on her, and it made her own anger bloom. Over and again she had been humiliated before Murdoch’s people. She would not silently suffer the same at Adderstone.
She peered over her shoulder and met Rollo’s frowning regard. “Release me!”
He moved his gaze to Bayard. A moment later, his arm around her eased, but not enough to allow her to escape.
